Hunter's Moon (25 page)

“You convinced researchers you had the gift?”

“They told me I had the highest score ever recorded on their test. A lot of what happened, though, is still foggy. Big chunks missing.”

I said, “The highest score?”

“Well, they said one of the highest scores. But I knew what they meant.”

It was the way the agency would have couched it. He was telling the truth.

Tomlinson, eating a banana, waved at Wilson and Vue, who were close now. “Sam found the classified records. That's how he knew. He told me what he wanted before you showed up on Cayo Costa—quite a shock to see you, Doc.

“No offense,” he added, “but I told Sam you were very negative about the whole psychic thing. You might get in the way. I love you like a brother, man. But I still can't figure out why he asked you to come along.”

 

 

 

THE WRECKAGE OF THE CESSNA HAD NOT BEEN REMOVED, as I expected. In isolated places worldwide, carcasses of planes are routinely abandoned where they fall. Their fragility makes a mockery of wealth and complexity. I've seen locals smile a little as they pass by.

I wasn't prepared, however, when Tomlinson told us, “They didn't find all the bodies.”

I translated for the guide as the president and Vue stared at my friend as if he were making a bad joke.

“Bodies from the plane, you mean? There were only seven people aboard.” His face pale, Wilson was looking at the stone marker beyond the runway where trees thinned, and the lake, six hundred feet below, was a motionless blue. Next to the stone were five white crosses and two Stars of David.

The Nicaraguan government's way of honoring the First Lady and her group.

Tomlinson, with eyes closed, facing the jungle opposite the marker repeated, “They didn't find all the bodies.”

The wreckage was a quarter mile from the huts, all uphill until we got near the top, where there was a natural terrace—ideal for the small runway. After lighting incense and candles, Tomlinson had walked around the perimeter, saying:

They were words from one of his favorite Buddhist sutras. He repeated them over and over, as a chant.

But after half an hour, uncomfortable with religious ceremony, I slipped off alone. The rain forest on the north side of the volcano was dense. Beneath canopy shadows, the chirring of tree frogs was an oscillating chorus. I found several tiny frogs, three inches long, that were iridescent scarlet with black flecks at the dorsum. They were from the genus
Dendrobate,
which the indigenous people call “poison dart frogs.” Roasted, their skin secretes alkaloid poison that's deadly—effective when arrows are dipped in it.

Flora and fauna I saw were common to the region. It was the end of Central America's rainy season. In this cloud forest, water had been converted into rivulets of vines, rivers of fern, and pools of green forest canopy, water's flow slowed by absorption, then delayed by photosynthesis.

I jotted details in my notebook.

When I returned, Tomlinson and the president were alone near the stone monument talking. Tomlinson had his hand on the man's shoulder, comforting him.

When they rejoined our group, Wilson's face had paled, but he was stone-jawed, in control. It was then that Tomlinson stopped abruptly, closed his eyes for a moment, and said it:
They didn't find all the bodies.

When the president snapped, “Damn it, that's impossible!,” Tomlinson touched a finger to his lips and waved for us to follow.

He walked like a man using a stick to dowse for water, feeling his way. He led us through jungle, down the volcano, to a wall of vines that, when parted, revealed a stone cistern. It was ancient; the hieroglyphics on the outside were Maya-like.

Tomlinson leaned over the cistern for a few seconds, then spun away, hands on hips. His chest was heaving as he asked, “You said the plane was supposed to pick up a sick woman and her child?”

The president was moving toward the cistern. “That's right. A pregnant woman. But she and her son left earlier in a boat. That's what locals told our investigators.”

“They never got to the boat.”

“Oh no. Don't tell me—”

Tomlinson moved to slow Wilson as I stepped to the opening. I looked, turned away, cleaned my glasses, then looked again. There was an adipose stink about the place.

“You don't need to see this, sir.”

The cistern was ten feet deep. At the bottom, among forest detritus, were two bodies, an adult and a child, judging from their sizes. The corpses were contorted by what may have been abrupt muscle contractions prior to death. Animals had been working on them for months. Two charred mummies. Their skulls were discernible, shrink-wrapped in skin.

Both had been set ablaze, possibly after death, but, more likely, while they were alive.

Their contracted poses were significant. But it wasn't only that. The screams of seven people in a burning plane wouldn't have been enough for Praxcedes Lourdes.

He liked to watch his victims run.

Tomlinson and Vue left by boat before noon with some of our gear to lighten the plane. It would give us additional range and speed. But Vue had brought a couple of boxes for us—food, I was told—so the difference would not be striking.

Once ashore, they would drive a rented Land Rover south to a safe place to overnight.

As they said good-bye, I heard the president tell Tomlinson, “When you get back to Sanibel, you will receive an envelope containing the information I promised you.”

I wondered if a similar envelope would be awaiting me.

An hour later, a single-engine aircraft—another Cessna, Wilson said—circled the island once, showing an interest that made us both uneasy. The Maule was covered with camouflage netting, but that was no guarantee.

It was rare to see a plane in this part of the world. The airstrip hadn't been used in months. Locals still traveled by dugout canoe and fished with nets woven by hand.

The plane banked as if to make another pass but turned south instead. Had the pilot lost interest? Or had thunderheads, stalled to the east, forced him onward?

I'd been trying to buy time, hoping General Juan Rivera would show, but also thinking
I don't need a weapon. A bullet is not how Praxcedes Lourdes should die.

No, I didn't need a weapon. I knew what it was like to have the man by the throat; to feel reflex contractions caused by fear, not flames. Bullies are driven by cowardice. It was the only normal human characteristic I could assign to Lourdes.

But Kal Wilson was an impatient man. This island was now poison to him.

“We need to get under way.” Wilson had been worried about the weather, now there was a plane to think about.

I said, “I really think you should cut me loose. He was here, I can pick up his trail. When the local police arrive, I can talk to them. Maybe they'll know something.”

Wilson's expression said
Why are we having this discussion again?
“That was six months ago.”

“But Lourdes grew up here. There's a settlement of Miskito Indians not far, on the coast. They have a communications network better than any telegraph. They'll know he's out. They might know where he is. They're terrified of him, so they keep track.”

Wilson wouldn't budge. “We have to be in Panama by tomorrow. Why are you stalling? You're expecting someone, aren't you?”

I told him yes, that I'd e-mailed a man who might have the equipment I need.

“Who?”

Wilson had every reason to despise Juan Rivera, even though both men had been out of the political spotlight for years. But that's not the reason I replied, “I'd rather not say, sir. He would expect me to keep his name confidential.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“No. But I would expect the same of him.”

“Sorry. You said you need at least a day to get set up? This will give you extra time.”

No, I had said I needed a week but didn't correct him. The president was still shaken by what we'd found on the rim of the volcano and by what Tomlinson had told him.

What that was, exactly, I didn't know. I'd gotten Tomlinson off alone, but he was emotionally drained. I didn't chide him when he opened the silver cigarette case he carries while traveling and lit another joint.

“Bad?”

He inhaled, waited for a moment, attuned to his internal chemistry, before he exhaled. “Horrible.” Meaning, how Wray Wilson had died. “Praxcedes Lourdes was here. The evil one. He had three or four men with him.”

Although the case was plea-bargained, Tomlinson had been deposed as a witness against Lourdes because he is friends with my son. Tomlinson had actually faced Lourdes once, in a courthouse hallway.

Since that day, he has always referred to Lourdes as “The Evil One,” as if the term should be capitalized.

There are times when I wrestle with the possibility that Tomlinson really does have extrasensory powers. But then I remind myself it is a mistake to confuse empathy with telepathy. For Tomlinson, the pain of others is as palpable as vapor, as contagious as a virus. It seeps into his brain, then his soul. He doesn't just empathize, he absorbs. Tomlinson says he loves people for their flaws because flaws are the conduits of humanity.

Like many who spend their lives outdoors, he also has a heightened awareness of sensory anomalies. The stink of charred adipose is uncommon at sea.

I asked, “What did you tell the president?”

“The truth. You can't lie to a man like that. But I softened it as much as I could. There were details . . . details about those poor, poor people . . . what they went through before . . . before . . .”

Tomlinson stopped as if waiting for pain to fade. He looked at me with his wise, sad Buddha eyes. “For Wray Wilson, the worst part was the silence of the flames. Water, wind, earth, and fire—all elemental. But combustion isn't a substance, it's a chain reaction. To a woman unable to hear? Fire is deafening.”

I packed the camouflage netting as the president went through his preflight. We left the volcanoes of Lake Nicaragua behind, flying south.

Less than two hours later, we landed at a place I hadn't seen for many years—the Azuero Peninsula, on the Pacific coast of Panama. Rock, opal sea, jungle. There was a tuna research facility nearby operated by my friend Vern Scholey.

As Wilson idled the plane toward what looked like a seaside cattle ranch, he told me, “A man's supposed to meet us here at three. But we're early and he's one of those pompous asses who's always late.”

I knew he wasn't talking about Vern.

Four hours later, at sunset, the man arrived. Turned out the pompous ass was Kal Wilson's adversary, General Juan Rivera.

Rivera hadn't gotten my e-mail. And he wasn't in Panama to see me.

General Rivera told President Wilson, “The American newsman Walt Danson is in Panama searching for you, old friend. I am saddened I must damage our reunion with this bad news. If he was not such a famous
journalista
”
—
the general's eyes sought mine in a knowing way—“I would have him kidnapped. But kidnapping famous people is time-consuming. They are demanding, and so nervous about how their food is cooked. As you comprehend, we have very little time.”

Wilson was looking at me. “How could Danson possibly know I'm in Panama?”

“It is not a thing I understand,” Rivera replied, moving imperceptibly to distance himself from me. “I can only tell you it is true. Something else that is more bad news: Only two hours ago, I was sitting at an outdoor cantina in the jungle watching the news on CNN, and the sexy
gringa
—Shana Waters?—she was interviewing fishermen who said you purchased gas from them for your craft. This was on a beach, and she was wearing a blouse that my new wife said was quite expensive. One of the
campesinos,
he titled you ‘The Chief.' ”

Rivera was a showman, performing for an audience even when there was none. He was enjoying this chance to impress the president with his English. I interrupted. “Did she describe the plane?”

“Yes. Very accurately.”

“What about the location?” If Waters was on our trail, she might be selfish enough to keep the story exclusive.

“She said . . . Honduras. ‘Somewhere in Honduras,' is the way she said it. Such a sexy
gringa
—in my humble opinion. The entire world is searching for you, Mr. President. The news is on every screen. But if Shana Waters succeeds, do you think it is possible that you could arrange an introduction?”

As an aside to me, Rivera added, “It is a thing I miss. Being interviewed by the
journalistas
of New York and California, particularly women. They are so . . .
receptivo.
It is one of the reasons I have decided to”—he stumbled for a moment—“decided to abandon my retirement from the revolution.” He smiled. “Do you not agree, Mr. President? It is the time for revolution once again.”

Wilson, who was not smiling, said, “Yes, General, I agree. It
is
time for a change. First, though, we have to deal with this security problem. How do Waters and Danson know I'm in Central America? And for Waters to broadcast from the exact spot where we refueled—that was an unscheduled stop, remember?” He was speaking to me, as my brain reviewed the linkage:
Key West . . . Danson, Waters . . . Tim the Gnome . . . Tomlinson . . . Me . . .Wilson . . .Vue . . . Rivera.